


If Only

by BrokePerception



Category: Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Spiritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokePerception/pseuds/BrokePerception
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If only they knew... that I feel far from what they make me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only

Intelligent is what they call me – sometimes even the word 'wise' falls. That's the very same word which I myself used to describe Albus Dumbledore when he still was a professor at Hogwarts. He isn't a professor any longer. He isn't a headmaster there any longer either. He isn't any longer. Period.

My eyes linger upon his tomb for but a moment. When the familiar uneasy, somewhat itchy feeling in my eyes announces that soon, I will once again burst into tears over this if I don't... I quietly turn my head and let my green eyes fall shut.

I, too, feel the aftermath of the war not only in my heart, but in my very bones as well. A decade's worth of commotion has unleashed itself upon us all in one year – though I'm not as naive not to believe it already hadn't been very safe for a while – possibly since Voldemort's return in a close to human shape. Albus and I have had numerous conversations about it, and yet it feels like in fact I have never been involved in the key point at all until later... only ever having watched from the side until Hogwarts got involved and me necessarily with it. Albus must have had his reasons, I guess.

Intelligent is what they call me. Even the Sorting Hat agreed, upon getting me Sorted that day so many years prior. Eventually my unbridled courage to fight for what I believe right – as the Sorting Hat worded it so well – however, did it... and had me in Gryffindor.

I sigh. Wisdom never has come to me easily. Experience always has taught me most. My life never has been the rose garden all little girls have in mind and create for their dolls. Studying until far past midnight daily wasn't considered very odd for me at Hogwarts. Going for multiple nights in row to get the damn Master in Transfiguration by sheer will power was not unusual after Hogwarts either.

Will power.

I exhale, titles of Prophet articles coming to mind: "The Lioness", "The Gryffindor hidden in Minerva McGonagall"...

What others see as wisdom or maybe courage, I label as will power. Will power has gotten me the eventually obtained degree, has maybe even gotten me through those wars – the will to live.

A heroine with the strength of a lioness is far from how I feel. I have never been a long time wife or mother, despite how I dreamed about being both as a child. With my husband I have never felt those butterflies Muggle romance novels – even the ones for children... maybe especially those – associated with being in love. That's what makes me doubt about ever having been then, in love. I'm sure enough I have once felt them... but not with him. He was a very good man, who seemingly adored me. I'm not sure whether or not I ever did get the chance to get to love him in return. I certainly cared for him, but...

Maybe I'm not that far off from being a Ms. Figg. Instead of having cats, I alternately turn into one. I actually can perform some magic, though. I sigh. Great magic might have saved more. Great magic thus obviously isn't something in my power.

Life is far from how I might have imagined it as a little girl. Pushing myself to the verge by burying myself underneath work so as not to get the chance to dwell on matters and then break down entirely is working most of the time, but on rare occasions, my last resolve is lost, and then I sit... and weep when I'm alone, away from public view. Sometimes I'm sure that Albus knew, and maybe got to anticipate those times somewhat. Many a time like that, he showed at the door of my rooms with a bottle of malt or whiskey.

Heartless and cold are both words often enough used to describe me – if only they knew. If only they knew that within the exterior rests a heavy heart... if only they knew that whatever they happen to call me, I never believed any of it, nor ever actually will.

If only they knew...

...that I feel far from what they make me.

...that I, myself, would never find any word whatsoever better fitting for me, than a failure.


End file.
